Victor. We're not playing games here," JD asks, "are we?"
"No," I say. "We're going to the gym."
25
At a gym in the Flatiron District, in what last week became the most fashionable stretch of lower Fifth Avenue, my trainer, Reed, is being filmed for a segment of Entertainment Tonight about trainers for celebrities who are more famous than the celebrities they train, and in the gym now-which has no name, just a symbol and below that the motto 'Weakness Is a Crime, Don't Be a Criminal'-beneath the row of video monitors showing episodes of The Flintstones and the low lighting from a crystal chandelier Matt Dillon, Toni Braxton, the sultan of Brunei's wife, Tim Jeffries, Ralph Fiennes - all in agony. A couple of male models, Craig Palmer and Scott Benoit, pissed off over something I said about Matt Nye's luck, semi-avoid me as they towel off in the Philippe Starck-designed changing room. Danny Errico from Equinox set the place up for Reed when the issue of Playgirl Reed appeared in sold something like ten million copies and he subsequently was dropped from the Gap's new ad campaign. Now Reed's costarring in a movie about a detective whose new partner is a pair of gibbons. Reed: $175 an hour and worth every goddamn penny (I stressed to Chloe), long blond hair never in a ponytail, light 'n' sexy stubble, naturally tan, silver stud in right ear, designer weight-belt, a body with muscles so well defined he looks skinned, license plate on his black BMW reads VARMINT, all the prerequisites. It's so freezing in the gym that steam rises from the lights the "ET" camera has set up.
The Details reporter arrives late. "Sorry, I got lost," she says vacantly, wearing a black cashmere sweater, white cotton shirt, white silk pants and, in true girl-reporter-from-Details fashion, tube-sock elbow pads and a bicycle-reflector armband. "I had to interview President Omar Bongo of Gabon and his cute nephew, um..." She checks her notepad. "Spencer."
"Ladies and gentlemen." Reed spreads his hands out, introducing me. "Victor Ward, the It Boy of the moment."
Mumbled "hey"s and a few "yeah"s come from the crew, who remain darkened behind the steaming lights set up in front of the StairMaster, and finally someone tiredly says, "We're rolling."
"Take those sunglasses off," Reed whispers to me.
"Not with those lights on, uh-uhn, spare me."
"I smell Marlboros," Reed says, pushing me toward the StairMaster. "You shouldn't smoke, baby, it takes years off your life."
"Yeah, my sixties, great. Don't wanna miss those."
"Ooh, you're tough. Come on-hop up here," Reed says, patting the side of the machine.
"I want calves and thighs and definitely abs today," I stress. "But no biceps," I warn. "They're getting too big."
"What? They're thirteen inches, baby." Reed sets the StairMaster to Blind Random, level 10.
"Isn't your T-shirt, uh, a little tight?" I ask, taunting.
"Arms are the new br**sts," Reed intones.
"Oh, and look," I say, noticing a tiny blackhead. "You have a nipple."
"Cut," the segment director sighs.
"Victor," Reed warns. "Pretty soon I'm gonna bring up that bounced check of yours-"
"Hey, Chloe took care of the bill."
"This is a business, baby," Reed says, trying to smile. "Not a charity."
"Listen, if you need more work, I need bouncers."
"This is work, man."
"What? Being familiar with fitness equipment? Spare me."
"I already supplement my income, Victor."
"Listen, as long as the sex is safe I personally think being a male whore is cool-if it pays the bills."
Reed smacks me upside the head and growls, "We're doing squats today."
"And abs," I stress. "I have a photo shoot, baby."
"Okay," the director calls out. "We're running."
Automatically, without trying, Reed starts clapping his hands and shouts, "I want some strain, some pressure, some sweat, Victor. You're too tense, buddy. Out with that tension. In with some love."
"I've sworn off caffeine, Reed. I'm teaching myself how to relax by deep-sea visualization. I'm avoiding the urge to check my voice mail on a half-hourly basis. I'm hugging people left and right. And look." I reach under my CK T-shirt. "My new tranquillity beads."
"Far out, baby," Reed wails, clapping his hands together.